A Cat by Edward Thomas

She had a name among the children;
But no one loved though someone owned
Her, locked her out of doors at bedtime
And had her kittens duly drowned.

In Spring, nevertheless, this cat
Ate blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales,
And birds of bright voice and plume and flight,
As well as scraps from neighbours’ pails.

I loathed and hated her for this;
One speckle on a thrush’s breast
Was worth a million such; and yet
She lived long, till God gave her rest.

by Edward Thomas

Other poems by 'Edward Thomas'

A Private

Adlestrop

As the Team's Head- Brass

Aspens

Beauty

Bob's Lane

Celandine

If I Should Ever By Chance

In Memoriam

Lights Out

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